


to peter lukas, often alone and ever lonely

by enterprisecaptainoikawa



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 95 percent spite and 5 percent affection, M/M, epistolary fic, jonah is trans and also melodramatic, my first fic where the characters aren't aro or ace? possibly lol, somewhere between crack and Serious Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-28 00:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30131109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enterprisecaptainoikawa/pseuds/enterprisecaptainoikawa
Summary: Over the course of their fifth honeymoon, Peter poofs into the Lonely at least a hundred times. When he exits, Jonah writes him another letter.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Peter Lukas, Peter Lukas/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	1. September 17

**September 17**

To Peter Lukas, often alone and ever lonely:

I’m keeping a book, this time—perhaps unnecessarily, as letters like the ones I intend to write maybe aren’t the sort you’d ever want to read. Maybe the entries that follow are for _me_ , instead—things to melodramatically reread when my sometimes-husband has gone off to sea for some extensively lengthy arc of time. I might address them all to you, regardless—apart from emails, most of the writing I’ve been doing as of late happens in the hours that follow your leaving. (Their tone depends, most often, on whether or not you’ve informed me of your intentions before exiting.) Is that being smitten? Firing all my conscious thoughts in your direction? Maybe I just like to watch you receive them. You’re equally pretty when grimacing and smiling, I think. The former appeals to my sadistic side, the latter to my romantic one. There’s a thrill to both, positive or negative, human or inhuman. Healthy or not.

I do think the next week or so will constitute our most successful honeymoon yet. We’ve had a good thing going, you occasionally proposing marriage with the caveat that I at some point propose divorce. Your most recent overture was the best yet (of the ones I didn’t plan, anyway). You know, I almost felt sentimental about it. I suppose that I did. It was that you asked at the Institute, in the lobby—in front of eleven people. I counted. They slowed or stopped entirely to watch you drop to one knee, to see how you’d ask, how I’d reply. Their surprise couldn’t make a main dish, I suppose, but it functioned well as dessert. Delicious, if not nourishing. Sweet in its rarity. 

I hope someone recorded it. You really did outpace me—I wasn’t sure if you’d actually do it then, or how, so it came as at least a fraction of a surprise. I think my shock must have been more evident than I would have preferred: I felt, for a moment, vulnerable. And then I relished that feeling. I’d wonder here why embarrassment feels so good for me, but it’d be empty rhetoric: serving the Eye as I do, I take pleasure in both watching and being watched just as you get off on isolating yourself as well as others. Obviously. We make quite the pair, in this (as you’ve occasionally pointed out post my propositions for divorce). Maybe “pair” is a word that only describes us on occasion. “On-again, off-again,” perhaps, is more frequently accurate.

You fell asleep in the plane seat beside my own just now, anyway. So I thought I’d start writing in here. This is something of an introduction, I suppose. I won’t forget a moment of this trip, but I might imagine it differently later. Or I’m embracing the catharsis of composing the autobiographical. It feels more refined, considering you with a fountain pen the price of a suit rather than mulling everything over in bed with a vibrator wand shoved between my thighs. Writing is… poetic. Clinical. Melodramatic. If I’d blush at someone else reading what I write, whether for the melodrama or the intimacy of this text—as I said above: I wouldn’t mind the embarrassment. If you’re reading this, Peter, I hope you’re blushing. If not now, then later, when I’m really feeling like bothering you.

We’re a few hours from landing. I think I’ll leave this little book around to tempt you when I’m absent in the coming weeks (although I suppose that, more often than not, you’ll be the absent party of the two of us—the one who, as ever, exits first).

I’m touching your thigh with the fingers of my spare hand, listening with my third eye for any indication you might be waking. You sleep on—maybe a coping mechanism for weathering crowded flights. I can’t blame you for that. Do you think I could get you off without a flight attendant seeing? With my hands, I mean. Maybe I’ll try.

Here’s to us, anyway. (I’m taking a sip of my wine as I write this.) If this honeymoon should go terribly, I hope it does so in each of our favorite ways.

With only a dash of newly wedded menace,  
Jonah 

XOXO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written a few letters for this, so here's the first! (Kind of a gauge for interest?) On twitter at 5tephendeadalu5 and tumblr at stephen-deadalus; do send help, if you'd like; I have no idea where this fic is going to take place yet lolol


	2. September 17

**September 17**

To my on-again, off-again spouse:

Should I have packed sunscreen, do you think? Will this body burn? The Eye can’t tell. It’s been a while since I last spent hours on end in the sun.

I’m waking you up now—we’re nearly there, and I’ve grown a bit bored, fun as it is to see the kinds of things you dream about.

Sending my best and my worst,  
Jonah

XOXO


	3. September 17

**September 17**

Peter Lukas:

I don’t think you realize the extent to which I’d find pleasure in _gutting you like a fish_. I’d have to steady myself to keep from doing it too quickly in all of my impatience. I’d try to draw it out for days, just to see the fear of death in your eyes, the knowledge that you are, indeed, limited. Can the dead feel lonely? When you find out, it’ll be because I’ve made you so.

I’ve sit down on this _stunning_ airport's most uncomfortable bench to vent for a moment, as it’d be a bit much, I think, for us to have fought before even unpacking. I’ll wage war on paper, instead. If my handwriting looks a fraction shakier than usual, it’s with vehement frustration at your _dashing off into the Lonely as soon as we landed._ Could you at least have taken your carry-ons along with you? I’m sure I look an utter mess dragging along my suitcase, _your_ suitcase, my satchel, and your backpack. I should wait right here for you to return, make you carry all of it. I’ll have to pay someone to carry our actual luggage. Maybe I’ll find someone utterly dashing and compel them to do it. Or would you like that all the more—watching jealously from the Lonely as I flirted with someone else? Lord, it’s difficult to anger you. If anyone could do it best, though, wouldn’t it be me?

I don’t feel like sitting here any longer—I’m heading for the hotel after I’ve gotten someone for the luggage. I’d threaten to abandon you as you have me, but you’d love that, wouldn’t you? 

When you return via the pathetic fallacy that is that cloud of mist you step out of, I’ll embrace you for an hour. 

My hold on you will be 95% spite and 5% affection. By which I mean… I’m _ever so slightly_ lonely, setting foot down on my own in a country I don’t call home. 

I suppose you can come back now—my frustration’s fizzled out. It’s quite crowded here, though, so maybe you’ll wait a bit longer to rejoin me. Pop into the taxi, perhaps, when you’re ready?

With disappointment and, _yes_ , understanding,  
Jonah 

(XOXO)


	4. September 17

**September 17**

Dear Peter:

I’m nearly there, and _I can see you??_

If you feel, right now, like someone’s watching you—gaze lingering on your neck, shoulders, upper arms—you’d be correct.

(How precise is such a feeling? If I squint or raise an eyebrow, can you tell?)

I’m seated in the back of a slowly moving taxi. I could tell when you dropped back onto our usual plane. I avoid looking, generally, into the Lonely—it feels like defeating the purpose. The question of your being had been lingering in my head; when an answer was to be had, I knew it. I saw you check in at the hotel front desk, and I’m watching now as you attempt to open the door to our room. (The _other side_ of the keycard, dear. Now you’ve got it.) You’re walking around the room, looking for the best spot to build your nest. You claim the left side of the bed, the one farther from the window, by removing your jacket and laying it down there. I’ll hang it up later, when you’re not looking.

You don’t have anything to unpack yet. What now? You wander over to the window, examine the view. Do you like it? A few too many people, maybe. You pull the curtain closed. A small smile crosses your mouth—can you tell you’re under observation? Perhaps. You pull off your boots, taking your time, then your belt. Those fitted navy pants. Your sweater, your undershirt. In plain white briefs, you make your way to the bathroom. (I’ve been meaning to ask: would boxers, perhaps, feel more lonely? More personal space, and all? Of course, by that logic—why wear anything at all?)

You like your water cold. It’s perfect. You make a show, I think, of stripping all the way down, first reaching into the shower with an arm and then stepping fully inside. Christ, you look good wet. You’re aware of this. This is a poke at my exhibitionism—could I get off on feeling turned on in a taxi? _Would_ I? Just as we make our last turn?

I’m going to stop looking now. A shame—but it’d be rude, to not offer the driver my full attention while thanking him, passing over an obnoxiously large tip. (He’s planning on wasting it, and I’m happy to contribute.)

With anticipation—as if this were a wedding, and not our _honeymoon_ ,  
Jonah

XOXOXOXOXOXO  
XOXOXOXOXO  
XOXOXO


	5. September 17

**September 17**

(I had to doodle for a moment, there—the elevator trip up to the penthouse suite was _dreadfully_ long.)


	6. September 17

**September 17**

I’m writing in the bathroom, too much of a perfectionist to resist getting everything down as it happens. I’ll tire of this soon, I’m sure.

For now: you’re too sweet—you make me look awful in comparison. I’ve ordered you flowers that will arrive tomorrow afternoon. The tag attached reads, “Thanks for showering first so that I could do the same immediately upon arriving. Dinner was lovely.”

With something akin to love,  
Jonah


	7. September 18

**September 18**

To the sea captain asleep on the left side of our bed:

You’re alone, I suppose, when you dream: unaware of the body which physically borders your own. When I shifted around—looking for my pen—you didn’t stir.

I’m watching you dream. Just until I’m tired enough to fall asleep again. Would you consider the things you dream about nightmarish, or pleasant? Both?

You’re in a large crowd—attempting to remove yourself from it, but your legs aren’t working like they do when you’re awake. They hold you up—barely—but they won’t move you forward. Every individual in the crowd is a few inches taller than you; you can’t see your way out. You’re indoors, actually. Agoraphobic. Then you’re in the middle of the Atlantic. It occurs to you that the sea is only lonely if you’re thinking about humans. Why didn’t you try the desert? Maybe the sea’s just more romantic.

Is there a limit to how much I can say to you here, to how many short letters I write you in a day? It’s past midnight, I suppose, so maybe this counts as a new one. My resolution for this new, second day of our (fifth) honeymoon: to put into words just how pretty you look in the middle of sex, how it’s different from the pretty that you are while you sleep. Your hair was a bit messy a few hours ago, and it still is now—it’s just getting to the length at which there’s not much you can do with it; unable to neatly flatten, it sticks out a bit in new angles every morning. God, I’m a slut for graying hair. In a half dozen weeks, maybe two months, your hair will be just long enough to have a proper wave to it. Something pullable. 

Things to write about at a later date: your arms—specifically, your forearms. They’ve grown thick from work, if only passively. You’re ambivalent about it, never dressing them up, and I almost forget them until you’re without a shirt. When you read in bed, I imagine that they never feel sore, that you could hold up a heavy biography for hours without realizing the stamina required to do so. Or I don’t imagine—I know, I suppose. It doesn’t occur to you. Your ability to stay intent on one text for so long bewilders me, too, just a tad. But there’s only so much you  _ can  _ see, and you’re not one for looking as I am.

Your dreamscape keeps shifting as I write. Because I’m looking? Perhaps. You’re at the top of a lighthouse, taking a rag to the light in question and wiping away dust. You’re on the lookout, glancing back at the horizon every few moments to check for boats. What time did they say they were coming?

You’ve emptied out a shopping mall, and you’re admiring your work, now. It died slowly, store by store; it makes you think of cathedrals. A good dream, I take it. 

Another question for tomorrow, as it occurs to me: might I steal your half of the comforter? Would you feel lonely without it? Only one way, I suppose, to find out. This book, henceforth, will be a lab report. The hypothesis in question: can a lack of blankets induce loneliness in Peter Lukas?

Maybe the question isn’t about you at all, and this is a study of myself. How villainously can Jonah Magnus behave before guilt sets in? How many people must he kill? How many times must he make his sometimes-husband frown?

I’m going to steal 10% more of the blanket, then 15% tomorrow night and 20% after that. I’ll be awful in degrees. How does that sound, darling spouse?

I’m maybe a dash more tired than before. We’ll talk in the morning. You’ll likely wake up before me. If you attempt to wake me before ten—my condolences.

Drowsily,   
Jonah 

XOXXXXXXXX


End file.
